


Rain When I Die

by CannedTins



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 1991), Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 2018), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Death, Dying wishes, Gen, Hospitals, Original Character Death(s), Original Character-centric, Past Child Abuse, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 14:45:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CannedTins/pseuds/CannedTins
Summary: Basil Starling's life was dedicated to being a movie director, and he made sure everybody knew his position. In his dying moments, he makes one last wish to an old friend of his.Years later, Jim Starling visits the studio.





	Rain When I Die

**Author's Note:**

> Triggers include hospitals, cancer, and mentions of child abuse.

Basil had always been eccentric.

Stanley wasn’t sure if it was all the antidepressants he took or the amount of cigarettes he smoked that motivated him to keep going—-to put it simply, Basil would practically work himself to the bone to finish his latest masterpiece. Even when he got that diagnosis...he didn’t stop. 

His movies began to see a drop in quality, he made less public appearances, release dates grew sparse as he often landed in the hospital. He refused all offers to retire, as well. Stanley had grown to admire his director’s dedication to his work, despite the fact he could get...harsh.

It certainly didn’t help when Christopher Boorswan learned the news of his competition’s failing health and took advantage of it by creating his own grander, more awe-inspiring films which scored more at the box office than Basil’s ever could. 

Not many were allowed inside Basil’s hospital room on account of being a celebrity, aside from the obligatory nurses, that role was restricted to family and close partners. Unfortunately, Basil had long disowned his son, and no one else from the studio was willing to visit him. No one, except for Stanley.

Stanley was Basil’s directing agent, and perhaps the last remainder of his childhood. He was a goose, short and stocky. When paired next to his close companion, they looked like a typical comical duo—-of course, that was far from the truth.

Especially today.

Although Stanley had been visiting him quite often, each visit still came as a shock to him, knowing that his old friend was taking in lungfuls of air from a ventilator and could hardly move without support. He didn’t seem to be in pain today, eyes fixated onto the ceiling as each breath came in deep, wet and ragged.

The heart monitor beeped, green line on the screen dragging on up and down nearly at a snail’s pace. The IV bag was overhead, filled with fresh saline solution, which Stanley believed wouldn’t have helped Basil’s situation much anyhow.

“Hello, Basil.”

In that instant, the withered old duck seemed to come to life, turning his head slightly towards his friend’s voice. Stanley could see that his eyes pleaded for more air—-or perhaps more cigarettes. 

“Stan...ley,” Basil’s voice croaked and shuddered, the breath he took in between syllables harsh and wet, trying to get rid of phlegm in his throat and lungs. As wheezing and weak as it sounded, Stanley could still hear a tinge of Basil’s commanding voice within.

Basil weakly gestured that he needed to sit up in the bed, and Stanley complied, taking care not to displace any medical tubing in place. Taking another deep and wheezing breath, Basil repeated Stanley’s name.

“I’m...dying.”

“I know, Basil, you have been for quite some time.”

Basil shook his head—-or tried to, “Actively dying, Stan...life...draining.”

Stanley opened his mouth to ask something when Basil pointed at the wheelchair adjacent to his bed, his skeletal arm trembling with the effort. Stanley looked to the wheelchair, shock forming in his features as the idea dawned upon him.

“You’re not—?”

“Take...” Basil wheezed, “Take me...to the studio...”

“Oh,” Stanley put his face in his hands, “Oh, Basil.”

Basil narrowed his eyes, taking a breath deeper than Stanley thought possible, before coughing violently. Stanley lifted him up slightly and re-adjusted the oxygen mask, allowing him to breathe more clearly.

Of course Basil wouldn’t want to die in a little hospital room, thought Stanley, of course he’d want to head to the old movie studio. Somebody with an ego as large as his could never be caught withering away in a clinical setting. Stanley begrudgingly accepted his request, but he had to figure out how to deliver this message though the nurses—-surely they wouldn’t accept such an outlandish request.

Then again...it  _ was  _ Basil Starling. There was nothing he couldn’t do, and anyone who doubted him was sure to get the last laugh. This duck wanted to be as rich as Scrooge McDuck someday. He’d never fulfill that wish.

“I don’t know...” Stanley muttered, before being pulled towards Basil’s corpse like face, listening to his slow wheezes.

“Take...me. I...order...you,” the ill duck’s eyes blazed with a level of determination Stanley hadn’t recalled in the several years since his forced retirement.

That was enough to scare Stanley into accepting his friend’s wish. Heading out to call a nurse into the room, Stanley came back with two, explaining Basil’s last wish to them. At first, with their slight grimaces and “hmm”-ing, the nurses didn’t seem convinced that it was such a good idea to transport such a vulnerable patient. Stanley promised to pay them handsomely, which seemed to relieve the tension, if only for a moment.

Getting Basil out of his bed would be a difficult task in itself. The old duck had been bed-ridden for so long that his bones were rendered nearly useless and stiff by lack of movement, creaking soundly as he sat up and planted his feet to the ground. The nurses supported him with walking over to the wheelchair. Basil had always been quite tall, but now he was hunched over as if the weight of his feathers dragged him down, nearly Stanley’s height at this point.

One nurse hooked up his IV drip and portable oxygen tank to the wheelchair, the other placed him in the transportation proper. Basil did not thank them, shooing them away as they prepared everything. He asked for Stanley to come over, reaching out with a shaking hand.

“You...take me...there. Nobody...else,” Basil croaked, pulling Stanley’s collar close to him again, “Not even...the nurses...Nobody.”

“W-why not?”

“You...idiot...the pa--paparazzi...”

“They won’t find you, I promise.”

Basil scoffed and pushed Stanley away, commanding him to take him outside the hospital and drive to the movie studio.

“Front seat,” Basil croaked as Stanley opened the car door, “Next to you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Basil shouted, the sudden change in volume sending him into a coughing fit. Stanley placed the oxygen tank in first, IV next, and finally seated Basil in the passenger seat, placing the seatbelt on.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“No. Keep...going.”

The drive to the movie studio didn’t take long, but to Stanley it felt like it dragged on forever, especially as he thought about Basil’s current condition. The old bastard was dying and he didn’t want to go out in a hospital, he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, to finish what he had started—-his directing career.

The studio itself hadn’t been used to make movies for some time following Basil’s forced retirement. Stanley and a few other crew members were in charge of maintaining the area and paying costs if needed, in the hope that anyone else could take Basil’s mantle. No one took up that opportunity.

As Stanley wheeled Basil inside, both of them saw that it was empty, devoid of any life and imagination that it once held, no movie props and no cameras or lights to showcase action. Stanley spotted Basil’s directing chair in the closet and dragged it out, placing it in front of the stage, then hooking up the camera. Periodically, he watched Basil and made sure he was still with him, checking his oxygen intake and heartbeat.

“The chair, Stanley,” Basil wheezed. Stanley nodded, lifting him off the wheelchair and carefully carrying him to the chair.

“Do you want your stuff too?”

“No,” Basil settled in his chair, his breathing harsher than ever now that he had no oxygen tank in his vicinity, “I will...die here...”

“Okay. Do you want me to leave?”

“No...take the...camera.”

“What?” Stanley raised an eyebrow. 

“Film...me.”

Stanley took in a breath, looking to the camera positioned in front of Basil. He was asking to film his own death? Even for somebody like Basil. Stanley thought that was a little extreme. Was he doing it to scare his competitor? It had to be some kind of game for him, to prove how  _ good  _ at making movies he was. He proceeded anyhow, starting the camera and listened to its whirring and clicking---the device clearly hadn’t been used in years.

“Leave,” Basil shuffled in his seat, “Go...outside.”

“You sure?”

“Please.”

Basil had never said please, much less thank you. It was clear from his tone and choice of words that he wasn’t fooling around. Stanley watched for a moment, listening to Basil’s wet, rasping gasps and coughs, leaning forward to face the camera better. Despite all the worries he had, he knew that this was Basil’s last wish. One that Stanley couldn’t refuse to give him.

“What about the camera?”

“Keep it...rolling,” Basil growled.

Stanley nodded, making his leave, closing the door quietly behind him as he exited outside, leaning against it so he could listen if Basil made any sound.

________________

  
  


Dark. The studio was dark. Inky blackness, like tar, enveloped the entire set with the same viscosity that filled and choked Basil’s lungs. He wouldn’t have that, the camera would not be able to capture him in his glory if the lights were off. Stanley shouldn’t have forgotten that. 

The camera continued to whir; the model was already several decades past its prime and would have been replaced by more advanced technology by now.

Just like Basil himself. Old, winded out, obsolete. An image of Chris Boorswan flickered in his mind’s eye, and he could imagine his honking laughter. 

Taking in a deep, throaty breath and coughing out phlegm, Basil struggled to stand up---without anybody’s help, he didn’t  _ need _ help!---and stumbled over to shut the camera off. 

Picking up his mask and taking in large gasps of much-needed oxygen, Basil set his sights on the light switch next. It would take ten steps, only ten steps to get there, and ten steps back. Twenty.

He took a step forward, and another, letting out pained, desperate gasps of breath every time he inched closer towards the light switch. His head spun, brain fizzling out slowly, fuzzy images of a life left in the past lingering in his mind---he didn’t want to remember. As he flicked on the switch, the set came alive once again. 

Blinding lights assaulted his weakened vision. He shielded his eyes with a hand, letting out a yelp before retracting his hand and blinking slowly so he could adjust to the studio lights. For a moment he stood awestruck at the stage, having been absent for so long, he’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be  _ here _ . A ghostly image of himself materialized in the director’s chair, hands clasped together and a smug expression on his face, as if daring his frail older self to come forward.

Shaking his head, Basil focused on the task on hand. Time had been running out for a few years, and the hourglass was now on its last pinch of sand, ready to fall at any moment. As he trudged back, he took a mental note of what he needed to do next.

Extra oxygen. Turn on the camera. Film his own death.

Taking in another lungful of oxygen through the mask, he turned his eyes towards the directing chair. Another image appeared, this time much more clear, as if the memory were as fresh as a newly-hatched duckling. And speaking of ducklings...

He could see himself in his prime, tall and handsome, looming over a little boy who he’d once considered  _ his _ boy. The little boy was cowering underneath his shadow, teeth chattering and not daring to look up at his father’s furious expression. He shielded himself and cried out as Basil brought a clapperboard down upon him---

Basil shook his head again, switching the camera back on and taking his seat in the chair. Another strained breath, inhaling proved to be nearly too painful to attempt. His lungs refused to expand fully, afterwards coughing with such force that his entire withered body shook. Clearing his throat and sighing, he stared into the camera.

What was there to say? It proved so much of a chore to breathe that speaking would surely kill him faster, something he wasn’t willing to do  _ yet _ . But there was so much to say. It all depended on who his audience was. Where could he start?

There was the boy, his son. No, Basil could never consider Jim his son ever again, he was an ugly stain on his reputation that he’d regretted too long ago. Time and time again that boy had disappointed him so, until the final straw when he _ dared _ to audition for some mediocre TV show for much less money and quality work than Basil ever offered. Jim was out of his life, and would be out of his death as well.

Christopher Boorswan? Very well. Filming your own death...was a difficult feat to accomplish and even more difficult to compete with. Chris was far too egotistical to seem like the suicidal type, and much too healthy to drop dead at any time. Filming his own  _ murder  _ would just make it a snuff film, completely different and too vulgar for Chris to consider. That would be interesting to see, but it was too bad Basil could never witness Chris’ anticipated reaction.

Nina...She left so many years ago, how could she ever reach him again? He loved her, with her fierce acting talent and red hair contrasted with emerald eyes---it was almost a shame that Jim retained nothing of Nina’s beauty, besides her eyes. He was sure she loved him, too, she always returned her affections and appreciated the lavish dinners he would take her out to. She also loved Jim, or at least that’s what Basil believed before the divorce. The memory was too bitter to bear, so he shook it out of his head.

Stanley never even crossed his thoughts.

With life further ebbing away from his body, Basil could hardly keep his eyes open for too long, even as the camera kept on whirring. His bones were lead, much too heavy to support the rest of him any longer, darkness circling around in his vision. 

He didn’t dare make a noise lest Stanley come in and ruin his last masterpiece, he had to die  _ alone _ . It would be filmed by him, directed by him, and distributed by whoever was willing to take that macabre roll of film and release it to the world. 

A rattling cough, and Basil’s head lolled over the director’s chair, letting out one deep, long sigh as he welcomed the darkness that embraced him.

In his final breath, he smiled as proudly as he would have in life, showing his power and dominance above all others.

He lay in that directing chair, a king on his golden throne. 

And nobody could ever take his throne from him.

___________

Jim wasn’t sure what prompted him to visit the abandoned movie studio; there was nothing in there as far as he knew, and he’d vowed to never land within a mile of that place. Not since he left his father.

As he walked closer to the accursed building, he looked up at the decaying logo plastered above the doorway, in large, blocky letters:

**ST** A **RLI** NG ** PRO** DUC **TION** S

He’d spent so much of his childhood there. None of it was very happy, especially when your father was the creator and owner of the studio. There had been moments in his early life where Jim had nightmares about being trapped in there forever. The building had been abandoned right after Basil’s death, and no one wanted to claim it, especially not Jim.

During his  _ Darkwing Duck _ days, Jim worked in a different studio. He didn’t own the studio, he only owned the  _ Darkwing Duck _ brand. However, he enjoyed it much, much more than acting in his own father’s studio. For one, he was finally in charge of everything; he didn’t need to endure his father’s beating and berating every time he did a take slightly wrong and had to re-do it 400 more times, he could say  _ keep rolling _ no matter how many stumbles he---Darkwing Duck---took. Everything could be done in one take only, in a way to prove his father that it  _ could _ be done. 

Jim Starling never cut.

The phone rang, but Jim opted to ignore it. It could be Morgana, it could be a stalker, or it could be an agent offering him an acting role---it wasn’t important right now.  _ Something _ had drawn him into this infernal place and he had to know  _ why _ . Maybe it was Basil, after all.

Acrid, stale air rushed through the open door as he peered in, suddenly remembering his father’s cigarette smoke. It couldn’t have been the  _ same _ odor, yet it was so  _ similar. _ Jim shuddered, but pushed onwards, flicking the light on and taking in the scene.

Cobwebs dotted every corner of the studio set, dust piling so high up that Jim was sure it reached his waist, and of course, that stench. All was quiet, safe for faint chattering of rats heard from within the walls.

He was sure Basil was hiding in one of the corners, or perhaps in one of the dust piles, but shrugged the thought off as it would be impossible for him to even be here. The phone rang again.

The wallpaper had long been peeled off, and the curtains were torn down either by rats or vandals. Graffiti brought color to the otherwise dismal view, artworks both crude and fine sprayed all over the rotting walls as well as words written out of spite, fear, love, or simply amusement. Basil would have thrown a fit if he’d seen all this done to his precious studio, but Jim found it somewhat peaceful.

None of the equipment was present, everything had been cleared out and perhaps the equipment sold to parties and other studios accepting the offer. But, Jim thought, something was missing. Sniffing around, he looked towards a beat-up closet on the far adjacent side of the set, prying it open. The door creaked, and dust spilled out, the closet vomiting contents long abandoned by its owners.

He half-expected to see nothing, and half-expected something. In the closet was a single directing chair, apparently having been forgotten in the midst of the clearing out of the studio. Jim could just barely make out the worn-out letters on the back as he dragged the chair out of the closet.

Starling.

That was his name. It was Basil’s, of course, but it was also his. Perhaps even more appropriate for  _ him _ , really. The phone’s incessant ringing snapped him out of his trance while staring at his surname, and he carried the chair back to the center of the stage.

There was the light, and some action, but no camera. Likely the ones that weren’t pawned off were stolen by vandals and salvaged for their metal parts in exchange for money. He’d have to imagine one, then. Sneezing as he sat in the chair, he shuffled around to get comfortable despite how threadbare and creaky it was, and looked straight ahead. He tried to imagine a camera rolling.

He watched.

And he waited.

**Author's Note:**

> Stanley was pretty much made up for this fic. I imagine his last name is Goosebrick.
> 
> Christopher Boorswan is my buddy Eyemeohmy's idea. Love the idea of Basil having a rival.
> 
> Basil is, of course, Jim's dad :)


End file.
